Gemotions

The scathing words, printed in bold, danced mockingly before Maya’s eyes. The critic, a woman known for her icy pronouncements, had eviscerated her restaurant's signature dish, the lavender-infused duck confit. Maya's breath hitched, shallow and quick. She reread the critique of the sauce, and her fingers found themselves tapping incessantly on the table as if trying to play a beat.

She felt a wave of dizziness wash over her. The restaurant, usually a vibrant hub of activity, seemed to shrink around her. The clatter of plates, the murmur of conversation, suddenly became deafening. She gripped the edge of the table, knuckles white.

“Everything okay, chef?” asked a waitress, her voice a distant drone. Maya forced a smile, a shaky attempt to reassure the staff, and the pressure in her chest grew with the effort. "Fine," she managed to croak out before her voice went thin. Her gaze darted around the room, as though searching for an escape route. It felt as though everyone's eyes were on her.